A novel does not have to be chronological nor does it have to proceed logically from one thought to another. It doesn’t have to grip the reader with fast action and suspenseful moments nor does it have to speak to some of society’s underlying conflicts or paradoxes. It doesn’t have to have a convincing story to tell where the narrative becomes increasingly evident and powerful. And it certainly doesn’t have to have brilliant and subtle descriptions of people and their utterances calling attention to insights that can be shared across many life spaces and varieties of experience. It doesn’t have to offer musings by the author on the many layers of meaning contained in the narrative. Nor is it necessary that the narrative contain many layers of meaning. And although it could touch many feelings that could be shared across the human community, it doesn’t have to.
This novel didn’t do any of these things, but it didn’t do anything else either! Therefore my congratulations to the author for these ingenious acts of avoidance, leaving us with a manuscript that has no artistic, historical or imaginative value whatsoever.
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